


Two Steps Back

by frooit



Series: How to Kill Your Conscience [2]
Category: The Pacific (TV), The Pacific - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Noir, Angst and Porn, Detective Noir, First Time, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Porn, Roughness, Semi-Non-Con, just for the porn, pacific noire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 21:41:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3993862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frooit/pseuds/frooit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night of being taken off the Basilone case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Steps Back

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wanted some grr-agh first time sex. So I wrote it. And here it is. Originally posted in 2011 to LJ.

It's not an evening Eugene can say he'd soon repeat. At this rate, he'll be taking up all the bad habits of his partner. All the loose and violent causes, all the rage, anger, and thoughts of regret. He doesn't drink often and this is surely reflecting it. He's following Snafu home. The night of being taken off the Basilone case. Two burned out detectives taking a drunken stroll down the fair streets of (the equally burned out) Downtown. Something that must happen more often than not because they're not getting many looks. But then, Eugene thinks hazily, it's well into the after hour hours. Everyone worth a damn is at home in bed.

Or, at the very least, at home.

"Gotta spare smoke there, boy?"

He barely slides by the guy, the sour stink of month old sweat pouring off him, conflicting with the already foul perfume of sewage and despair rising from the streets. He skips his pace to catch up after Snafu. They're in the bad part of town. Everyone worth a damn is at home in bed and the rest, well, the cast is all here. If he wasn't so far out, so fucked up, somewhere between dreaming and a really sweet orgasm, he'd be nervous. He gets nervous. His nerves have most of the power in this loose-gripped relationship over his body. And his beating heart? That thumping friend? It's the master.

"How farther?"

He meant something like: How much farther is it?

Snafu grunts and pulls him into a side alley.

The action is so quick Eugene stumbles.

Snafu's paused there when he looks again. He's hovering above him, gripping his arm, face smooth and even and ice cool. He's hovering there like a vulture because Eugene's bent down, mimicking a fall he was sure he'd have taken but didn't. The moment of panic eases. Snafu lets him stand of his own accord. More sweat, smelling of his habit this time, his cigarettes and tar, beads at Snafu's brow. His two wide eyes under that, they're milky and unclear in the unlight. Eugene hardly likes the hint of what he sees there, and what he'd felt in his grip.

It doesn't take long for him to find out the why.

Not long.

He's shoved back before he can tell his muscles to react and stop it. There wasn't much hope for that in his state anyway. He's shoved so hard he can feel the hard edge of every out of line brick in the building behind him. He was out of breath before, now he's suffocating. Snafu's mouth takes the place of any air coming in. He's sealed his lips, kissing hard, wetly, clumsily. Eugene's reaction to this, as slow coming as it might be, surprises them both.

He brings his knee swiftly up between Snafu's legs.

Snafu tears away, spitting and cursing.

"Jesus fuck," he hisses, "Knocked me in th' balls."

"I know," Eugene says, his tongue between too heavy and too numb. He doesn't make to run. He moves away from the wall though, keeping his eyes on his partner. Snafu's bent double, groaning, clutching his best assets. Eugene is sure his priority then should be staying out of reach, but he hasn't been one for following common sense recently. He goes over to him. Sets a hand on his shoulder.

"Fuck."

"Yeah, sorry," Eugene says.

"Ya will be," Snafu grumbles.

Eugene waits for retaliation, but it doesn't come just then.

 

 

The light switch flicks but the bulb isn't in any hurry to turn on. They both stand in the half light of the street lamps shining through the slatted blinds. Every breath is moist, in and out, the air immeasurably humid. When the light finally flicks on, not without blinking a few times just for effect, Eugene is dying for a glass of water.

The place is a mess to say the least. It's a dive, a squatter's paradise. What furniture might be is covered or obscured. It isn't just by trash, no, it's clothing and magazines and cigarette butts (a museum of them) newspaper leafs and stray bullet casings. It's a mess and scatter of things, Snafu's place, and forever moist. The windows are steamed up. He still has the cold of the night close to his skin.

Snafu lights a cigarette and sits on a pile of clothes. Eugene has to assume there's a couch under there. There might as well not have been though. This is Snafu after all. The loose cannon. The wild card. Who can do that all the time anyway? Who can be that angry? Just boiling with it. Just oozing over. It can't be healthy.

Snafu puffs a grey breath his way.

He's beckoning.

Eugene shrugs and sits.

His world soon starts to spin.

He leans forward, over his knees.

A cool hand meets the back of his neck.

It's a shock at first and then relief.

It turns mean real quick.

The hand presses down, pushing him forward, further over his knees and toward a pile of magazines on what could be a low table and the fresh face of some no-name starlet. His breath is pinched, left somewhere in his lungs to get heavy and start a burn. The hand doesn't relent, it pushes on, harder, until he's down on those knees, down to carpet. He doesn't struggle, or put up a fight. He was probably expecting him to, but he doesn't. He lets himself be pushed, his cheek pressing to that image, to that beautiful smiling face.

Cheap.

What a cheap smile.

Snafu's behind him, laid over him, nice and close.

He's pressed in, breathing in his ear.

His breath is laced with smoke and spirits.

His words, because he has some for the occasion, are gritty and sharp.

"Ya will be," he reminds. He shifts that hand pressing down on the back of Eugene's neck to the front. His fingers bite and find a grip. His lips he puts to Eugene's quickening pulse. The one that's beating a mile a minute, the one that must show in some high relief under his thin, white skin. The hand urges his head back so he's looking up now, giving more room for Snafu to lick and kiss and bite. Eugene's jaw drops, mouth gaping, feigning awe.

The ceiling is yellowing and stained.

"Call me crazy," Snafu continues.

He's clearer and easier to make out when he whispers.

Some of that lazy drawl lost.

"Ya smell like th' ocean."

Eugene swallows thickly, his mouth falling back open. The angle isn't doing much for him. It's drying his already parched tongue. He attempts to ease his head down but the hand is firm. He isn't given an inch. He swallows again. Snafu's fingers tighten on it and then let go altogether. He's soon pushed back down, and none too kindly. Something falls and thuds. Something falls and flutters. Snafu's pressing himself to his backside, a fully body rub. Eugene can feel the outline of what he'd kneed earlier. It's back with a vengeance.

And it fuels his fight.

He bucks back and lurches forward, trying to get over the damn table or away, just away. Snafu grabs and doesn't let go, putting the full force of his body into keeping him down. Eugene flops like a fish, banging his chin on what is now definitely a table. He rears back up, throws his arms wildly, tries to wrench him off, but Snafu has the upper hand. One, he's riding him piggy back, and two, Eugene can't hold his liquor.

The world is spinning.

His head is dizzy.

Snafu's at his belt, undoing it. He's pulling his slacks down as soon as it's free, all the while putting that weight of himself into the center of Eugene's back as an elbow, keeping him still. Eugene hasn't given up. Not quite. He grunts and kicks. Makes it a chore. He should be screaming, yelling out, trying to get someone's attention. He should be saying no, at the very least, telling him to stop, get a grip, calm down, take it easy.

Snafu's slacks have gone without his notice.

There's warmth at his backside then.

A new shock.

He knows what that is.

Sure as shit.

Now he's saying no.

"No, no, no, stop."

It's so pathetic though.

"No, no..."

Subdued and weak.

Snafu doesn't pay any mind.

He bites his neck, rocks his hips.

The wet slick sends a chill down Eugene's spine.

The wet slick of his partner's eager cock.

He puts another try forward, surging up. He gets halfway over the table before he's stopped, slammed down, his breath hissing out. He's ass end in the air now, knees planted on carpet, both arms caught on the far side. His abdomen is fully covering the table's surface and that dame's false friendliness. He couldn't have made it easier. Not even if he'd tried.

He'd be honest if he said he'd prefer the unloving barrel end of a good-for-nothing crook compared to this. He'd take his chances with a local mob boss. Hell, he'd jump from a great height. And he's afraid of heights. Those strange odds seem so much better than this.

A press and squeeze brings him back. The press and squeeze of Snafu's cock trying to be an unwelcome addition to his body. He's being rough and kind all at once, making sure to get his prize but not at the cost of great injury. Great, of course, being the operative word here, because just as he's pulling back he's blazing ahead, spearing him, filling him.

Eugene screams.

He thanks God, which is an out-of-character thing to do (he must be in trouble then), that he's drunk. The pain might have been worse otherwise, perhaps unbearable. This is hardly bearable already but he's still here, moving with every up thrust from his partner, in and out, forward and back, rocking. Snafu has both hands on his hips, pulling him in, keeping the pace. He's panting, grunting, striving for ecstasy. Eugene's just along for the ride.

He screamed then but he's wincing now, the pain mild and growing milder. He's not saying no, no, no anymore and he's done fighting. He starts to feel warm, lost, empty. He starts to want for what Snafu's been offering him. All that adoration and apparent love. All that pent up something or other. He starts to mewl, moan, to push back, to meet the wet slide and the tight squeeze. He's surely fucked now.

Snafu's pacing becomes wild, his panting breath erratic, choked.

It's over in seconds.

And then it's quiet.

For a time.

"Ya smell like th' ocean, but ah come in ah wave."

Snafu snickers.

Eugene can feel the warm, gradually cooling, slide of something drawing down his inner thigh. It's gone as it reaches his slacks crumpled around his knees. He doesn't so much as stand, he slides, half rolls onto his back, still very much on the table top, and reaches to pull up his ruined slacks. Maybe he'll hide some of his shame. Maybe not. There might not be any left.

It's then that he feels the full seeping warmth of Snafu's climax.

Just more lines down his thighs.

"Where's your...?"

Snafu jabs a thumb behind him. There's a door there that Eugene hadn't noticed before. He hobbles to the bathroom, not exactly reveling at the idea of cleaning off someone else's juices. It's already drying as he dabs at it with a snatch of toilet paper. He has to wet a wad to clean the rest. Down his backside, his inner thighs, the waistband of his slacks. He's barely finished when Snafu comes in, his pride hanging out in the wind. Eugene shuffles out, fastening his button and zipping his fly. He can hear Snafu pissing from the living room.

"Ahhh," he's saying.

Eugene's tongue is dry as a bone.

The toilet flushes and then Snafu's back with him.

He lights a cigarette and sits on the very same pile of clothes.

"We're even."

Eugene's stomach turns.

It's not from the booze.

It's from the ten pound weight.

The weight of reality.

He jerks and loses it, throwing up.

"Ah fine thank you."

Eugene coughs and spits.

"I'm sorry, I..."

Snafu tosses a towel over the mess.

"S'fine. Water's in thah sink."

Eugene rinses and spits before having a drink. He downs a whole glass and half of another one before he rejoins Snafu. The acidic smell of vomit and the dry aroma of smoke fills the room. The humid nature gives strength to the stench.

"Bettah?"

"Much."

Snafu pats the space next to him, ignoring that musky post sex smell as well as the clean patch of table from where their rocking back and forth, their joining, cleared it. The magazine with Eugene's dame is under a pile of many other magazines now. It will be forgotten. One can hope for good too, but we all know that's a lark. He's not a ham, after all, he's a God damn detective.

He takes the seat.

It's agony.

"Yeah," Snafu says, looking at him sidelong, smoke curling and curling, "Gonna be sore."

"Sore?" Eugene squeaks.

It's like hot coals.

"Sit on yer side, yer hip."

He demonstrates.

It helps little.

He offers him his cigarette and Eugene takes it without a word.

It's not an evening Eugene can say he'd soon repeat.


End file.
